Among Other Things
by Kitskune Miyake
Summary: Colonial! Alfred falls for a girl whose life is not mostly about the rebellion-her life IS the rebellion. America/OC. Even if you don't like, read and tell me what I'm doing right/wrong. Flames are welcomed and even enjoyed.


AN: I really should continue other stories, but the idea bothered me. Yeah, I'll continue stuff later. Sorry.

Disclaimer: Don't own Hetalia. Oh, and I didn't bother looking up history. This has little if any historical value. All I have is that I studied the American Revolution back in November/ December 2010.

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"I now pronounce you man and husband," the Holy See said with a slight look of disgust. He was a strict little Catholic, but he agreed to do this personal marriage. Nobody was quite sure why the typically homophobic priest agreed to wed the couple, but nobody cared. Especially not the two nations wearing tuxedos at the altar. France swept England off his feet and kissed him full on the lips. For once, the Englishman didn't complain. All he did was kiss back

America watched form the back pew, happy for his "older brother", but sad that he'd never experience the same thing.

Sure, he was a good-looking nation; Hungary even said he was one of the better ones. He saw many attractive men and women all the time. He had had one-night stands and short affairs, but none of it could ever compare with the feelings he felt for the one he could never love.

Her name was Abigail Keithley. She was a colonial-era teen who had stolen America's love—among other things.

At the time, soldiers had already patrolled the streets of colonial America. While the revolution wasn't quite ready, tensions between the colonists and the British were already high. America, who had only been a boy of fifteen at the time, was walking down the streets when he saw a maiden crossing the streets.

She wore a long, slightly worn dress and was carrying a basket of bread. Her bosom was slight, as were her hips. The most intriguing part of her was her aura. She had brown hair and brown eyes, typical features for the colonists. However, she gave off a strange air. It almost seemed as if she glowed, like a candle was lit and placed inside her.

She bumped into one of the redcoats, who turned and glared at her as the bread fell to the ground.

"I'm so sorry," she said as she picked the bread off the ground. She brushed the crumbs off him.

"You blithering idiot!" the annoying soldier practically screamed at her. He was starting to turn red with anger. "How dare you touch a British soldier! Do you know what I can have done to you?" He whipped his hand back, priming himself to strike her. Just before his hand made contact with her, America had intervened. He stopped the Englishman's hand and pushed him in the other direction. The two held eye contact for a few long moments. The redcoat started to sweat with anxiety.

"Beat it," he ordered the soldier. The soldier seemed happy to oblige.

America turned back to the girl, only to see her fleeing back. There was a new-found glint coming from her basket. America checked his pocket. _Damn_.

He stalked her as she walked on. She crossed into the alley between the printing shop and the tavern. When America turned the corner, all he saw was a fence. No doors, no girl. Nothing. Suddenly, a thin arm hooked around his neck and pulled him to the ground. He flailed around, trying to draw a breath in vain. Someone pinched his vein, and he blacked out.

He awoke sometime later with a terrible headache and fuzzy memories of what had just happened. He was surrounded by a group of unknown men, all silhouetted by the dim glow the candle gave off. America tried to stand up, but he was tied down to his chair. A figure from behind him stepped forward until he was right behind the British colony.

He whispered into America's ear with a deep throaty voice. "We caught you following one of our agents today. Yes or no?

"Yes," America answered. He was better off telling the truth as opposed to lying. He was outnumbered and still young by nation standards.

"What is your name, and who are you working for?" the unknown voice asked.

America faltered. England and the other nations had only called him "America." He wasn't quite sure how to answer this. England had told him that not many people were aware of the other nations. He had mentioned something about picking a human name, but he had never given America one. "Uh…" he said.

"Dammit! Answer already!" the voice from behind shouted.

"Jonathan! You don't curse in the presence of a lady," another voice said.

"Pardon me, Will," a sarcastic voice said from the corner. The owner of the voice stepped into the light. It was the girl from the market. "When was the last time any one of you treated me like a lady? I have had to run my own missions. I have saved you men more times than you can count. So don't go about patronizing me." She defiantly placed her hands on her hips.

"Looks like she's got more testicle than you," one of the others laughed. The entire group started laughing, except America. He was still confused and scared.

The girl looked at the other men. "I'll take this interrogation into my own hands. My name is Abigail Keithley. Now that I've told you my name, tell us yours."

"Uh…"

"You must know your own name."

"I don't have one." America decided that was the safest choice of words for the time being.

"Now that's silly. What parent doesn't name their child?"

"Well…" he started slowly, "the people who know me call me America."

She sharply sucked in a breath. "That's a silly name." America blushed slightly. He didn't mind seeming silly, but in front of a girl? That was a big taboo.

Abigail continued, "Well then, Mr. America, who are you working for?" At this point, America was about ready to give up. His life had been relatively simple, even with a revolution brewing. Now he had to state his allegiances.

"I work for no one but my country," he said smoothly. He had heard his big brother England say that before. It seemed an apt response. Then again, America wasn't exactly the brightest candle.

"Well, I'm afraid we'll have to kill you," Abigail said. America froze. How could such an innocent, beautiful girl become a heartless mercenary? She pulled out a knife. It wasn't a pretty blade, but since when did knives have to be pretty to cut? "You see, we can't have any Loyalists knowing who we are—"

"Wait!" America cried as the blade whistled through the air. "I do not serve England."

Abigail pulled the knife back and put it away. "I can't trust you fully, but for now I will."

"But. Ma'am—"

"Silence. He's halfway proven himself for not letting that soldier strike me. I shall be the judge of his character." She cut the ropes loose and gave him a tight smile. "Now, Mr. America, why don't I introduce you to the business.

* * *

_You're in too deep, America. Get out as fast as you can._ The colonial teen could practically hear his big brother's voice in his head.

"So," he said slowly, "you're smugglers."

"Among other things," Abigail said simply.

"And that makes me…?"

"That makes you a smuggler…among other things." She smiled again. America cleared his throat awkwardly and tightened his tie.

"Uh, well, so what do I do?"

"You're new to the game, so I guess I show you around."

It took two months to fully train him. By that time, Parliament had passed the Tea Act. Abigail was practically spitting fire when the news reached their headquarters. It was dangerous to be around her when she was spitting fire, but America, who had adopted the name Alfred ("It's my grandfather's name," Abigail told him), would invariably be there. It hadn't taken long for him to learn how to comfort her.

"Shh…you're father wouldn't be proud if he heard you saying those words."

"I don't care," she said. "I don't fucking care." She went on to say a few more bad words, words that sailors at the docks used. America sighed. The mental breakdown had been bound to come. Casey, one of the smugglers, had tipped off their latest supplier. She had sent Alfred to kill him before any more could be revealed. America knew that it would be hard on her. After all, Casey had been her lover.

"Look, I understand. All I'm gonna tell you is that the two of us will see this revolution through."

"Th-there's no revolution," she stuttered between tears.

"I know it's coming," he said softly. He lightly brushed her hair. "The two of us will see this through. After all, the army's gonna need a couple of saboteurs as experienced as you and me. We'll be the secret hero's of the revolution."

She paused before responding. "O-okay."

The two had a hand in many victories. They stole weapons from the British and gave them to the Patriot troops. The team had changed from smuggling tea and goods to smuggling weapons and food. Slowly, but inevitably, the team dwindled down to two: Alfred and Abigail.

The day came all too soon. It was their biggest mission, but also their most dangerous. Alfred casually threw his arm around his "wife." The two headed towards the Blue Heron, a tavern notorious for housing Loyalists and the soldiers who fought for them. Alfred's nose wrinkled at the smell of the soldiers, bloodstained and sweaty. They had recently captured Boston, and now they were celebrating. The two looked around for their latest mark. The one they were getting paid to find. He focused in on their target, General Hastings.

Next to him, Abigail shivered slightly. She stared off in a different direction. Alfred followed her line of sight to a young soldier, laughing along to some unknown joke, most likely about the Patriots. He squeezed her hand. "Let's go," he said. The two booked a room, and made their way there.

For the next five hours, the duo prepped for their greatest mission yet. Alfred had already done his part. He knocked out one of the workers and stole his clothes. They were a bit tight, but it was manageable. Abigail stared off.

"What's bothering you?" he asked.

"James."

"Your brother?"

She nodded tightly. "He's here." Well, hell, America thought. He put his arms around her and squeezed her slightly.

"It'll be okay. We're gonna survive. And we'll be the heroes of the war."

"You're right. We need to get into the mindset of the mission. We can talk later." Alfred would have protested, but it was too late. She was set on the mission, and wouldn't listen anymore. Besides, what he had to say could wait. She got up and walked towards the bathroom. "Get some sleep; it's gonna be a long night."

Alfred tucked himself into bed and slept. He woke up as the smell of roast beef and potatoes wafted towards their room. Abigail came in carrying two plates.

"Rise and shine, my little hero," she told him. She handed him a plate, which quickly disappeared down his throat. "You ready?" he nodded. "Good." She handed him a vial. Its contents were unknown even to Alfred, but he knew what to do.

He got out of bed and put the worker's uniform on. Grabbing the hairpin off the counter, he made his way to Hastings's room. When he picked the lock in, he grabbed the little tube of tooth powder and mixed the vial's contents with it. He lined some of it along the edge of the tube, and then he left. If Abigail was right, which she always was, this would weaken and daze the general, making him an easier target. He quickly left back into their room.

The clock passed too quickly. Soon it was one in the morning. The last of the partying soldiers, including General Hastings, had stumbled back to their rooms. Before she left, Abigail was her reaching into his bag and pulling out a canteen of whiskey. She paused, trembling slightly, before taking a long draft. She shivered at the burn, but she had become impregnated with liquid courage, something she would need a lot of.

Abigail then crept into his room, knife in hand. (She couldn't risk a gun; it was too noisy.) Ever compulsive, the general had rubbed some tooth powder on his teeth before heading to bed. Picking the lock, she sneaked into the room, making sure that no one saw her enter the room. Alfred stood outside, waiting to see if anything went wrong. She held the knife poised over Hastings's heart, when suddenly, a gunshot rang out.

Alfred burst into the room, only to see Abigail fall to the ground, clutching her side. Towards the left, Alfred saw a dark figure step out. It was James Keithley, Abigail's Loyalist brother. America felt rage bubbling through his veins. Grabbing the pistol from his belt, he turned and shot the boy before he could see the nation grab Abigail and jump out the second story window.

He ran as fast as he could into the forest, careful not to let her blood drip on the ground. He could feel her blood seeping into the tight shirt. After running for two miles straight, he set her down and examined the wound. He gagged. He was no doctor, but he could tell when a person would die.

"Ugh, did you do it?" No response. "Too bad, we were so close." She paused and coughed out some blood. "Dammit. I'm gonna die, aren't I"

Alfred nodded. There was no use I lying to a dying girl.

"Well, I'll see you in hell. That's where the two of us are going. I can just tell."

"No, we aren't," he replied adamantly. He wasn't gonna let her die so melancholic.

"To hell with your talk," she said. She paused and laughed at her joke. "We've lied and cheated and stolen. We're set for hell." She smirked. "Remember how you said we'd be heroes. Well, I amn't a hero." He was about to correct her, but she continued to speak. "You are, though. You're gonna win the colonies a war. Besides, even if I was a hero, I'm still a bad person.

"Al, I'm sorry that I've ignored you for so long." Alfred's heart stopped. "I was so caught up with the revolution, my gang, the smuggling…"

"Don't say that. You were doing what's right. Even if—" He choked, struggling to vocalize the emotions set deep in his heart. "E-even if my feelings were compromised, you were doing what's r—"

"Don't say that word. I never did anything right. Goddamn, I can't even put together a proper rebellion or run an assassination."

"Well, you did something right," Alfred said, carefully gauging how much life was left in this girl. _Not much_ he told himself.

"What," she said, throwing her gaze to the stars. "Tell me one thing I did that was so great that I could get into heaven."

"You got me to fall in love," Alfred said, feeling that lump. "If you can better one person's life before you die, and you repent for your wrongdoings, I'm sure God can find it in his heart to forgive you."

Her eyes turned back to him. Alfred choked; the candle that lit her was still going strong. "You always had a way with words," she said weakly. She reached forward, trying to steal enough time to get a kiss. To ease the effort, Alfred leaned in, taking the lead. They were tentative at first, unsure how to even kiss. Slowly, the two grew comfortable enough to grow deeper into the kiss. He tilted her chin up slightly, and he caught a taste of her mouth: sugarcane and whiskey. The combination seemed abominable, yet the taste suited her. He grimaced at the taste of her blood, the lifeblood that poisoned the kiss.

She broke the kiss, sliding the tip of her nose down his throat, nuzzling him softly before lying back on the hard, icy ground. With the last effort in her, she smiled with pure joy and bliss. Suddenly, the light behind her that burned so brightly, the same light that caught Alfred's attention, went out. He stared back at her open eyes and blissful smile, both mocking him. _She's dead_ he thought. He reached out and closed her eyes.

Alfred, fueled by grief and anger, tore at the ground. His nails became jagged and dirty, but he didn't care. Soon, he dug up enough ground to lay his deceased leader and lover in. he covered the grave, leaving the face for last. Glancing around, he spotted a fern. Carefully pulling out a few of the fan-shaped leaves, he lay them across her chest, a mock of the palm leaves pictured with saints. Then, he threw the last bits of dirt over her face, the candle behind her features extinguished.

"_Deus misereatur animae tuae simus iterum redeat in caelis_," he said in shaky Latin, barely remembering the words and conjugations England had taught him. "_Te amo_."

It started to rain, and despite how cliche it was, America, the brokenhearted nation, started to cry. With the dawn came the sun, and the rain stopped as it hung over the boy and his lover's grave, laughing at them, mocking them with bright, cheerful waves. As the last of his tears subsided, Alfred—nay, America picked himself up and walked away. He still had a war to fight, a battle to win.

He still had a love to avenge.

And the rest—shockingly—is history.

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AN: Review as harshly as you see apt. Do not just say "lol, awesome". Comments like that are kinda like flames to me; you obviously don't care enough to leave a heartfelt review. At least say what you like.


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